


ᴄʀᴏssɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ʟɪɴᴇ.

by blue_dreams



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Kidnapping, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_dreams/pseuds/blue_dreams
Summary: → when y/n moved to gotham, she expected to mind her own business. she didn't expect red hood would barge in her life and catch an interest in her, turning her options from sticking to the background to dancing on a tightrope.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Reader, Jason Todd/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	1. dropping glasses just to hear them break.

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably trash but i just wanted to write a jason story and the idea for the plot popped in my mind so i gave in and posted it ( eventhough i'm kinda nervous with characters portrayal and such. lol ). bear with me please, it's also been awhile since i brushed up on my dc facts so there might be some inaccuracies. timeline wise this should be set sometime post arkhamverse when jason starts being a vigilante as red hood. i imagine the guys' ages would be as follows :  
> dick : 25  
> jason : 22  
> tim : 20
> 
> that's about it, comments will be appreciated !

She'd always thought it unfair how life is a long hard ride, yet it can end in the span of three seconds. But that seemed to be the norm here in Gotham, where thugs would shoot the postman or the cleaning lady in the face just because they'd have a bad day. It got so usual that every time she watched the news, she stopped feeling surprised. People in Gotham didn't need to be rich or guilty to die, you could die even just by knocking at the wrong time or speaking with the wrong person, or God forbid rub them the wrong way. She supposed everything is fair in war ( and love ) but killing innocent people hardly made part of their wars, they just used any excuse to act like capital trashbags and advertise it as authority.

Looking back on this, she feared for her life the first time she moved to Gotham, then she decided that was too pathetic and settled for the next best thing: the selfish coward's guide to surviving by minding your own business. For someone capable of blending in the unpopular corners, it worked. She was a small town girl, she had no problem passing unnoticed as just another person in the crowd, eventhough the job she'd managed to land was a little too social for her taste. Y/n needed the money though so she wasn't complaining. Working at White Russian was better than the Iceberg Lounge, for example; atleast Ivanov Gorov didn't set his waitresses up to the sexy dress code with tiny corsets and stockings, or the penguin inspired equally tiny blazers and faux formal bodysuits. She guessed it could have been worse.

Her apartment was a dump, she had to put up with crazy neighbours and her landlady was a constant bitch about paying rent on time. Going grocery shopping was one of her few sources of happiness, or just the fact that she'd get to stock up on food and some snacks or sweets she liked. She'd gone through this routine for a few months and being here no longer felt like such a tragedy. Sleep during the day, work during the night, she was officially a local bat...hopefully, _The Ghost_ will not get her for that pun. Another reason to be scared but they say ignorance is bliss, which is why she pretended the shadows weren't moving at night, keeping her eyes on the road or ahead. She was an average young woman who once aspired being a famous artist, getting her wake up call as a nobody whose art would forever be disregarded; could've made a fortune off weapons, she bet criminals in Gotham ate them with cereals at breakfast, what with how they had them littering their houses. Sadly, she wasn't a dealer. That and back to point one: her priority was minding her own business, in other words, just get by without meddling with others and their business.  
  
  
  


* * *

White Russian was one of the newest clubs in Gotham, opened when Ivanov Gorov bought properties from owners that sold off their spaces out of bankruptcy, turning them into classy nightclubs. The area of the main club played a role in its success because it didn't pose any interference with the already existing gangs in Gotham. Everyone talked to everyone and conflicts between sides would be escorted outside of the establishment. A special charm of White Russian, however, was the women Gorov had to offer. From exotic pole dancers to foreign prostitutes, he was believed to be involved with several human trafficking rings. Y/n knew it was true, she'd learned the hidden details from one of her friends, Alicia, who'd been one of Gorov's, unfortunately, favorite toys for two years. She and another waitress named Lhana had bonded with her, sharing survival tips and secrets.

Tonight was just as packed, the club tended to get really busy on fridays and saturdays with the wave of clients populating the bar, booths and dancefloor. They came in bigger groups, ordered a lot and left generous tips too, sometimes. The thugs did, the other stressed university students and office workers were here just to let loose. Music, voices, blinding lights, shady people: she'd gotten used to it. One of the things she did to keep herself alive and kicking was to turn a blind eye to anything suspicious; drugs, guns, illegal activity. As long as no one picked on her, and she made it stay that way, it wasn't concerning her. Sure there were some handsy customers trying to cop a feel or flirt too much, instances in which she'd discreetly evade advances and mention Gorov if it meant getting them to not bother her. Nobody wanted to get thrown out for assaulting his waitresses.

"Hi." Lhana entered the lockers room, to change into her own work outfit. "Ready for our shift?"

"Mhm." Y/n gave her a hum of agreement, checking herself in the mirror. She was grateful for the tight fitting white dress shirt and black pants, wearing a short skirt with so many sleazy men around would have been a lot less comfortable. "Section 4?"

"No, you got the booths on 5 tonight. Jez is on 3, I got 2 and 4 and Miller and Sun are on 1 and 6."

She frowned. The booths were usually where the thugs hang at. "Vivi said that?"

"Yes, she changed the order."

"I hate when she does that, every single week."

"We all do, hun. She's an awful manager." Lhana chuckled.

After closing her locker, Y/n got her notepad and a pen, walking out and to the counter of the bar. A quick scan of the place told her exactly what she wanted to know: there were far more criminals loitering in the booths than she'd expected. Pushing that aside, she told herself to keep calm and just roll with it, work was work. Perhaps she could snag some nice tips if she put on a few of her signature polite smiles.  
  
  
  


* * *

"What the fuck is this? I said bring me vodka, not fucking whisky."

This dude was drunk off his ass and he had the limited braincells to forget his own order two minutes apart from making her fetch him the wrong drink, again. Patience, she reminded herself. "Sir, you said you wanted whisky, not vodka."

"Are you telling me what I ordered? I know what I ordered! Go get me a Sazerac, girl." the slurring brute hissed, one of his bimbos giggling in his lap at her.

Putting the glass on her tray, she spun around to make the trip back to the bar, gesturing Andrew over.

"What's up? Guy didn't like his drink again?"

"No duh, he's worse than a five years old who can't decide what to get at the candy store. He asked for a Sazerac."

"Let's hope he sticks with that."

"Please don't jinx it." she leaned against the bar counter, taking the time to rest her legs. The bartender laughed, deftly prepping the cognac based cocktail. While waiting, Y/n's gaze jumped to the booth in the farthest corner, closest to the bar. She recognized Ruslan, one of Gorov's men, along with four others that were from one of the gangs in Gotham, and instantly dreaded serving them. As if on cue, Ruslan saw her and lifted a hand up to flag her to their table. With a nod and taking the Sazerac from Andrew to weave through the small groups of people by the sidelines, she brought it to the drunk from earlier, willing herself to move on to the other booth.

"Hello, what can I get you, gentlemen?" her line was boring and cliche, a fake smile pasted along with it. A chorus of "beer" went around, wine and a Negroni. Jotting the order down, she continued her pleasantries and left to grab their drinks, once again making conversation with Andrew, getting the beers and wine and him mixing the Negroni. She was back afterwards, putting the beers and cocktail on the table, and pouring Ruslan a glass of wine一 and that's when things went to hell. She could have sworn she'd felt it somehow: her intuition has rarely ever lied even if she doubted herself.

A deafening sound crashed the speakers dead silent, the neon lights going out too. The screaming started with the sign of a crossfire, people rushing everywhere to get out, the thugs showing their guns, ready to shoot rounds blindly. Lhana, Andrew and the others were scurrying for the back of the club, where Gorov had instructed them to lock themselves in one of the storage rooms in case of emergencies and wait attacks out, to avoid getting targeted. She should have been with them but in the midst of the chaos, one of the men at the booth pushed her off to play bravado, her pick resorting to crawl under the table to take cover.

What followed could only be described as bullets, shouts, glass and more bullets. The damaged light system flickered on and off, flashing into focus like a sick film on camera. She was praying none of the bullets flying around would hit her, catching glimpses of someone taking each one of them down, someone who definitely wasn't inside the club before this whole ordeal. Broken tables, chairs, glasses, ornaments, bodies. Every time she squinted past the jarring change of light, she saw red, red, blood. It was on the shiny floor, on the walls, on that guy一 there was a mask, he was wearing a mask, or rather a helmet.

The situation was short lived. The shots came to a standstill and suddenly, someone yanked her up from under the table by the hair, holding her at gunpoint.

"Show yourself or I kill her, you fucker!" Ruslan tightened his grip around her neck.

Y/n was close enough to scream, only she wasn't really the type to, so she stood, stiff and frightened, clutching the tray that was still in her arms. She cursed her bad luck and Vivi for putting her on section 5, she cursed her job and Gotham, right through a mental breakdown on how she'll get her brains blown out.

The main lights of the club turned back on. Glass crunched under boots and the figure stepped into sight, most likely the reason for the malfunctioning and everyone dead on the floor. There it was, that red helmet again. The guy was tall, she had no doubt he'd tower over her, broad and intimidating, with the uncanny bat symbol on his chest, painted red. She could spy several weapons on his person, or tools to aid him in his attacks, and the glocks that were already in his gloved hands.

"Drop the fuckin' guns! Drop them!"

The intruder's response oozed boredom to the threat, though walking forward to leave his guns on the table. Ruslan pointed his own gun at him, letting his hostage take a breath of relief, instead half chocking her.

She was so damn angry with her life. She'd done so well slipping under the radar for so long, and this stupid lapdog ruined it for her, using her as a human shield to save his own dirty ass. Y/n wheezed, clawing with one hand at his arm, and then she just kind of snapped. He had no right to drag her into this, how dare he take that from her, her meager, peaceful life she'd built for herself in Gotham by swallowing so many snarky remarks she had and walking on eggshells with so many psychos around. Gun away from her head, some sort of reckless courage goaded her anger, and Y/n went mad on Ruslan. First, she stomped her heel on his foot with a vengeance, causing the pistol in his hand to fall to the ground, turning as soon as he let go from the stunt she'd pulled to howl over his leg, to ram her tray in his face. It was almost comical, how she beat the thing into his head repeatedly, hitting and hitting, till he lost balance and tripped over the cushioned couch of the booth, yelling at her and failing to dodge the unskilled force of her frustration一 quieted down when she tired herself out and backed off, panting with the realisation of what she'd done. Ruslan's face...it was beaten like a prune, blood smeared and his nose twisted in a different direction, and he wasn't moving.

There was a noise behind her like a strangled snort but she was sure she might have imagined it, unless the guy in the red helmet was actually trying to hold in his reaction to her episode.

"He owed me some answers."

"I一He's not dead." Y/n defended, the tray, object of her offense, sliding out of her sweaty hands. She didn't know whether to be chilled by his disembodied voice through that helmet or of herself for having done that.

"Yeah, no, you just put him to sleep."

It didn't occur to her that he was messing with her, belatedly ending her existential crisis of near murder after noticing Ruslan's breathing pattern; just knocked out.

His footsteps closed in on her and Y/n scrambled to attempt to run, slamming into his chest, that red bat glaring at her.

"Here's what we're going to do, doll: I'll take the guy and you tell your boss I was here."

"Tell him who was here?" her retort came out half dumbly half deadpan, wishing she hadn't opened her mouth. His lack of a reply gave her the impression he rolled his eyes at her sass, or was planning how to kill her.

Brushing past her, the mystery man retrieved his guns and went around the table. Y/n just stared at Ruslan's unconscious body, how the stranger begun dragging him off the couch and all over the shards riddled floor by the arm as if he was a pig hauled to the slaughter, leaving behind a trail of blood on his trek to the back exit; perfect timing: the blarring of police sirens were on the hurry.

She was there when they kicked the front doors open to search the building for the culprit that was gone, blankly replaying the image of the red bat symbol in her mind with only one thought dawning on her: she just met Red Hood and lived to tell the tale.


	2. and you better stay clever.

Getting caught up in an attack threw her in another commotion: dealing with the police. Commissioner Gordon had to be one of the nicer cops but spending more than an hour at the police station to file a statement about the shootout was not her cup of tea. Ofcourse, Y/n left out the part where she'd beaten Ruslan with a freaking tray. As far as police knew, Red Hood abducted him and that was it. She was the sole witness and the cameras in the club turned out to have been destroyed by him, Red Hood shooting the footage to pieces; lucky her, she would've been stared at like a loony by the two younger officers accompanying her if they were to see her angry outburst back there.

Lhana and Alicia flooded her with messages for the rest of the weekend, checking to see how she was holding up. To them, she should of been terrorized, and as much as Y/n admitted to be rattled, she found it didn't faze her once she calmed down. Maybe Gotham was contagious after Batman's disappearence or death, if you wouldn't be crazy, you'd be insane. She never acted out on her frustration before but that night she let it out on Ruslan, because, well, he was an asshole who deserved it, it wasn't like she hurt a person without fault. Or, maybe this was a kind of contagious mentality. She'd heard word on the streets that the Red Hood never touched the innocent but killed regardless when it comes to criminals. Preposterous, not like he influenced her vision or something. She was honestly just confusing herself, overthinking. Her anger was hers to account for and coincidentally, her ideology fit that of Red Hood more than Batman's. Batman would have given Ruslan to the police to sign him in for vacation in prison, whereas Red Hood was probably playing darts with his body during her weekend long debates, and Y/n didn't feel bad. She wasn't abnormal, just thinking outside the self righteous box.

The club was closed down temporary, after police removed the bodies and did their rounds, taking pictures and doing whatever else. Damages were paid for and repaired, and workers were to return to the usual schedule starting thursday. Y/n spent that time pulling herself out of her musings and watching a couple movies with the company of pizza and some other snacks, regaining a sense of control over her life with the exception of Red Hood, and regretting every thought about him later on. She shouldn't have wondered about him so much because on monday around 3 PM, she got called in by Brexon, Gorov's business partner at White Russian. She had half a mind to lie and say she was sick and couldn't go but delaying the inevitable would do her no good. So she went there, with the right to feel suspicious as another man led her to Gorov's office, where Brexon was lounging in the spinning chair, waiting. She never liked Brexon, not that she liked any of them, due to his tendency to blackmail people. Lhana told her he tried to sleep with her once and when she refused, he wanted to fire her if it wasn't for Gorov having enough of his shit.

"Y/n, glad you could make it."

Reluctantly, she sat down, and he moved the computer on the desk so it would face her, pressing play on a video. The screen lit to a dark room, Ruslan's now unrecognizable face ( courtesy not of her ) illuminated by a lightbulb somewhere above. He was tied up, barely alive and soaked in sweat and blood. Someone walked behind the russian, a familiar leather jacket and red bat symbol noticeable in the poor light.

_"Ruslan over here and I had a fun talk. He's telling me you're bringing in a new batch of girls this month, and that your brother has a contract with the States. I didn't get to personally welcome you to Gotham when you settled in the city so what happened at the club was me paying you a visit. I'm feeling generous so I'll give you a week to reconsider your side hustle. Don't be stubborn like Ruslan, isn't that right, Ruslan?"_

Ruslan's muffled wails became louder. The last image was of his throat getting slit in front of the camera.

Y/n shifted in her seat, almost uncomfortably. "Why are you showing me this?"

"It was sent to Gorov. He isn't in Gotham, he's in France."

"But it has nothing to do with me."

"Oh, but it does. I've heard you were here when Red Hood came, and he let you live."

"I'm a civilian, not a gangster. I didn't do anything to anger him."

"Yeah but the way I see it, we can play around with that, don't you think?"

His smirk made her wish she could slap it off his face with a tray; talk about Ruslan 2.0, she needed to quit with the tray incident. "I don't know what you're talking about." she refuted instead.

"I need to fix this before Gorov gets back, sweetheart, and you're going to help me. On friday night I want you to come into work earlier. I talked to one of our girls, she'll take care of what you're going to wear一"

"Hold on a second, I'm a waitress, not a stripper, and no offense, this is not my problem, it's yours. Solve it yourself, I'm not helping you."

"Sweetheart, you don't get to have a say in it." he leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the desk. "I'm not asking you to strip...yet, you just get to look pretty and sit, convince him to make a deal with us."

"Excuse me? I don't have a say in this? Last time I checked I'm the one taking decisions if it concerns me, you sure as hell don't." her tone soured, giving him a hard stare.

"Don't be a bitch, Y/n, I'm being nice with you. You don't want this to get ugly."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I don't have to if you'll just be a good girl and do as I say."

So much for going back to her peaceful life. Y/n didn't need to test him, she had no doubt he'd pull a gun on her or force her to agree, he had no qualms about saving his own skin from Gorov's wrath. "What makes you think Red Hood would have any interest in making deals with you because of me? Get real, he's not like the italian gangs who like to get their hands on any woman they can. You're complicating things, I'm not getting killed because of you. You can shove your一"

"Y/n, I didn't ask for your input." Brexon's speech turned gruff. "You're doing it, whether you like it or not. Understood? Excellent."

She didn't answer, staring him down resentfully. It was clear she didn't have much of a choice, calling Gordon and telling him everything would get her murdered: Brexon and Gorov's mafiossos will get rid of her.

* * *

Crime Alley wasn't the kind of place one would go to clear their mind and cool off. The gloomy buildings and miserable conditions of the street were increasingly in decline ever since Batman was no longer active in Gotham. The first time she saw it, it broke her heart a little, mainly due to the horrors some of its inhabitants were part of. That was how she met Eric, a nine years old boy who lived with his sick mother, Marly, in an old apartment, barely getting by. She'd gotten lost that day, still new to the city, and he was kind to point her around. After listening to his life story, Y/n made it her mission to look out for him and his mother, bringing them food, helping clean their place, buying Eric some new clothes or books. It was the least she could do and one of the few good deeds she was proud of as opposed to her selfishness to survive on her own. She found emotional support in them too, if she couldn't open up to Alicia or Lhana about something, she'd go to Marly; being older, she offered more understanding and advice.

While she spent her afternoon with Marly over a cup of coffee and Eric riffled through the promised book about animals and wildlife that she'd bought him from the bookstore, she recounted the meeting with Red Hood and Brexon roping her into his scheme. Eric argued that one of his friends, Bret, was saved by Red Hood from some man who attempted to give him drugs and others on Crime Alley who've been oppressed or abused by the gangs of Gotham were beginning to see him as a hero. He said he thought Red Hood was not a bad guy, and Y/n sort of agreed on some level based on his story, but that wary feeling of the unknown persisted. Marly's opinion was to take care and be cautious, follow through with Brexon's plan simply to avoid any forceful consequences. She did insist that should things take a turn for the worst, she might as well speak to Red Hood for protection. It sounded like an idea, Y/n knew it could be a solution to her predicament, though she felt hesitant to willingly interact with the vigilante.

She lost the notion of time, evening fell over Gotham as she left from Marly's; she had no money left to call a cab and the sky was darkening, city lights peeking through the streets. Y/n always made it a point not to walk home at late hours, to spare herself any unwanted events, but she encouraged herself that walking fast and being as inconspicuous as possible would get her to her neighbourhood without mishaps. There were a few drunks and homeless people lurking at a turn or corner, shouts from somewhere between blocks, a stray cat slinking off scared. Her feet were quick, the breeze of wind ruffling her hair slightly. She was nearing the last alley to her apartment complex when she knew she was in danger, that feeling in her gut stirring一 two men in the immediate vicinity of the alley blocking her path right in and grabbing her.

"I don't have money on me, you don't have to do this一 just take my phone." she offered, her struggling going slack at having a blade held to her neck.

"Shh, we aren't going to hurt ya, pretty." the one behind her grunted. "Don't make a sound."

The guy who wasn't gripping her arms searched her pockets, patting her body down for any other items of value; he did it unnecessarily slow, giving away their intentions. Y/n drew the limit at his groping, acting on instinct and kicking him with her free legs.

"You fucking bitch!" the man spat, rounding on her.

The knife dug into her skin and she finally screamed, to attract attention一 someone, anyone.

* * *

Jason happened to be in the area by pure chance. Between keeping the underground in line at night and rarely showing his face during the day, he still managed to have a life which was funny considering he was a dead man walking ( pun intended ). He felt like death on legs, pulling all nighters with one too many coffees to even be healthy and the occasional nicotine. With the bozos running around Gotham, what could he say, he was a busy man. A bigger fight the night before had costed him his cracked helmet, which brought out plain ol' Jason dead to the world going out to grab himself a few beers and food, to chill and get some rest. He wasn't a fan of being out in the open, not as himself. People were used to either fearing or looking to him for help, as Red Hood, so being himself caused him to go through several bouts of paranoia, anxiety and self criticism, haunted by repressed memories or sensations his mind and body struggled with to remind him that he was human under all that red, and like humans he hurt too and sometimes, the smallest details could send him into a fucking panic attack. His scars, the thought that he might walk the same streets his _Replacement_ or stupid _Golden Boy_ with his stupid smile pass every day, the anger festering within him, kept at bay.

The scream echoed throughout the neighbourhood, coming from his left, leading into an alley. He had a gun stuffed in the back waistband of his pants and a knife in his boot but for the sake of being just plain ol' Jason, his gaze trained on a rusty pipe set next to a dumpster.

The first guy went to the floor with a loud thud, registering the hit too late. Snatching the other's arm and freeing the girl from him, he twisted his wrist and slammed him into the wall, moving to the side to dodge a sloppy fist.

Y/n watched the stranger slap the two thieves slash rapists around like it was nothing. If she wouldn't have been fallen on her rear and trying to catch her breath, she would have been impressed by his fighting abilities and how he proceeded to beat them to a pulp with that pipe, knock them out and...tie them up with grappling wire, back to back, thrown inside the dumpster at the entrance of the alley like a wrapped Christmas present. She figured it was for the police.

Pipe tossed aside and turning to glance at the female, Jason recognised her from the club a few nights before. "You okay?"

His voice sent awareness back into Y/n, the night air also nipping at her shoulders; she lifted herself and steadied on dizzy feet, zipping her jacket over her partially torn shirt and rushing to reply, the aftermath panic thrumming in the shaking of her frame. "I'm一I'm fine..." she nodded. The shock of almost getting raped was due to strike later, to fully accept the occurence. She was numbed out from the adrenaline of escaping at the moment.

He handed her the phone he picked from the ground, and on closer inspection, she looked at him, like really looked at him. A red hoodie under a black jacket, features shadowed. His deep eyes that appeared green in the dark and were bluer in the light, unruly hair hanging over his forehead with a white streak splitting the middle of his locks, crooked nose, a square jaw. The faint scars on his skin were an unspoken trauma and Y/n didn't linger, not on the J shaped one in particular. Some sick fuck must have taken a knife to his cheek, why and how, it wasn't for her to pry.

"You're bleeding." the male pulled her out of her daze.

Everything about him was rugged and hard edges yet unsociable, withdrawn distance.

Y/n touched her neck and let out a hiss; nicked from that guy's blade. She made a mental note to clean it and put some ointment on at home.

Jason spoke again, tilting his chin for her to lead the way. "I'll walk you home."

Speed walking, she didn't talk, didn't shoot questions, didn't even get to ask his name. She was feeling fatigued and jumpy, had to be the effect of the assault, and he seemed to prefer just tagging along without giving anything about him away. By the time they got there and Y/n stepped to enter the building, she glanced over her shoulder and he was already off around the corner.


End file.
